Let’s talk about all the reasons I sat in a chair today in a very clean medical-type office and let a woman inject many many vials of things into my face.

What in the fucking world could possibly have made it okay in my head to to that?

Why am I not enough when I look at myself?

Why can’t I allow myself to age gracefully?

Why do I not see my humor and heart as enough beauty to get me by in life?

What went wrong?

Oh, man. I have no idea! It’s not like I was ever this beauty who could begin wars or talk a bartender into free drinks. Wait, that’s not true. I got a lot of free drinks. And I talked myself out of two tickets when I was younger. One of them, when I was younger and braless. And I did have a “way” about me. Sex appeal, I guess. But I was no great beauty. And nothing I ever got that meant anything was because of my attractiveness.

I’ve never gotten an acting job as the lead girl or the love interest. All of my work has been character work, and rarely even attractive.

My husband fell in love with me because of my ability to laugh at myself, my utter lack of grace, and my honesty. And maybe my boobs a little.

None of my friends saw me and thought, “I must befriend that GORGEOUS girl so some of her BEAUTY can rub off on me.

I’ve never been that girl.

And yet I find myself looking in the mirror and not liking what’s happening. I don’t like those two lines between my eyebrows that make me look concerned all the time. I don’t like the drooping of my face, the loss of youthfulness, the shit that’s going on with my NECK that is beyond reason and apparently unfixable.

But why can’t I look at all of that and laugh it off? Why can’t I see it as the natural progression of life and allow it to free myself up to be ME? WHY do I HAVE to stay young and attractive? What does that get me? I can’t answer that. I really can’t.

And yet I sat there today and asked for Dysport in my forehead, got filler in those pesky anger lines, and then let myself be talked into more volume in my face. Because you can’t look “refreshed” when your face isn’t full. Of poison.

So now I’m having all these fears.

What if I just put a bunch of shit in my face and it makes my perfectly HEALTHY face… NOT healthy. I’ll never forgive myself.

What if it all works and I still feel unattractive? What then?

What if it works and I love it and I never stop filling my face with poison?

I could have had 10 great therapy sessions with the money I spent on those injections. Maybe that’s what I should be doing instead. Maybe I should be finding out why I don’t think I’m good enough just the way I am.

Because I AM! I am good enough!

Ouch. That outburst hurt. My face feels like someone punched me with needles over and over again. Oh, wait. They did.

I wanted to write this because I just felt like it might be good for me to put it out there that I did this thing. And now that you know, I can continue to be honest about it with you. I might tell you in two weeks that it’s the best decision for me. I might tell you I won’t ever do it again or that I’ve decided to cut my hair, stop wearing makeup, and start enjoying my aging process. I don’t know how I’ll feel about it tomorrow or in a month.

But right now I’m a bit mad at myself. And I also want to hug myself and ask me why It matters if I have wrinkles or not. Because I really do know that it’s not my face or my thighs or my ass that makes me who I am. I just don’t ever believe that long enough to LIVE that way.

I want to change the script. I really do. But right now I’ve got a face full of stuff that wasn’t in there before, and it’s continuing the script I was already writing. I’ll let you know what happens after the swelling goes down.